


out of chaos, order

by wndrw8



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: 3x01, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Riot - Freeform, protective joan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4954729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wndrw8/pseuds/wndrw8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If there’s one thing Joan hates, it’s making the wrong choice. It happens rarely. But when it does, it’s terrible. Like this. She made the call to wait, and now Lucy and two other inmates stand before her, Vera in their clutches, and waiting was the wrong thing to do." </p>
<p>3x01 redone</p>
            </blockquote>





	out of chaos, order

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychrophile](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=psychrophile).



> This is not at the level I wanted it to be, but bless all you freakytits readers, I really wanted to get another fic out there. Thank you for your support and love. This fic is for psychrophile who mentioned the prompt to me on tumblr a million years ago <3333

If there is one thing Joan can’t stand, it’s disorder. Chaos. Wentworth right now, bleeds chaos. Half of her prisoners are securely locked in their cells but the other half rage in the hallways, spill out into the yard. Fire burns. She smells the smoke. 

Yet this hallway is blissfully empty. One of the few safe places for Joan and her deputy, caught inside when the doors locked, targeted and outnumbered and unable to get out or call for backup. 

Breathing hard, Joan slows her pace. Her heels echo off the walls, Vera stumbling behind her. 

“Where are we going?”

Clip, clip. Her gait is even and strong. 

“Governor?”

“Quiet, Miss Bennett.”

Two gaits resound in the hallway, one quickening to keep time with the other. Joan takes the turn at the hallway hard. She imagines inmates swarming them. Drawstring on a teal tracksuit. She imagines fat fingers clasping around Vera’s arm, shaking, constraining, the material on her deputy’s coat wrinkling under the pressure. 

+++

The entire prison is under lockdown. Rules dictate that in such an event as a riot, all the prison doors are to close and lock. The reasoning behind this is to stem the flow of unrestrained prisoners, stem the panic. It all makes sense. Out of chaos, order. 

Joan shuts the door to the infirmary and draws the curtains closed. Dim light, red hued as per riot mandate, bathes the room. Vera’s hair hangs in loose curls around her face, pulled free from the bun in their hustle to find a safe room. Joan aches to smooth it out—either pin it back or let it all hang loose. Instead she puts her back to the door and stares at her deputy. 

“You let yourself get caught in here, Vera.”

Silence from the corner. Then Vera begins removing the pins from her bun. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. “As did you, Governor.”

“I am only here to watch after you.”

Vera sighs softly. The light flickers. Joan has a sudden feeling of wanting but stifles it. 

“I can’t spend all my time looking after you, Vera.”

“I know.” Vera begins to loosen her coat. Beneath it, her deputy’s shirt is white as bone. “They’ll try to get to you.”

Joan leans away from the door. The air feels stale, hot, so she begins unbuttoning her coat. She ought to not feel guilt but she does. She keeps imagining things. The images pepper her mind—Vera hurt, Vera scared, Vera at the mercy of someone other than herself. 

“There’ll be more of them than us.”

“Are you concerned for your safety?”

Vera looks up. “I’m concerned for both of us.”

Joan watches her carefully. Watches her fold the jacket and place it neatly on the examination table. Watches as she lays out her weapons, one by one, taking inventory like a good little soldier. Her hands shake as she works.   
Joan pushes forward. She likes the smell of this room. Antiseptic and something sweeter underneath, something she’s come to associate with her deputy. As she rounds the examination table, she goes against her rules and reaches out to lay a hand atop Vera’s. 

“This situation displeases me, Vera.”

Vera licks her lips. “Your displeasure is not what I’m worried about.”

+++

Joan paces. Runs the room three dozen times or more. She checks the doors, inventories her own weapons. Waits. She watches Vera sleep on the patient table for a few minutes, just monitoring the rise and fall of the younger woman’s chest. She appears, contrary to expectation, hardened in sleep. Her lips purse, wrinkles forming around her lips. 

Joan nears, reaching out to trace the wrinkles with a finger. Her deputy’s skin is cool to the touch. She lets her finger wander lower—to the second button on the shirt collar. 

Vera’s eyes open. She catches Joan’s gaze, blinks down to the offending fingertip. 

“You would do anything to please me, wouldn’t you, Vera?”

Silence. 

Joan lets her fingertips dance around the hard metal of the button, slipping it out of the slit in material, exposing cream colored skin, dotted with freckles. Her gaze lingers, then rises once more to meet Vera’s. “Wouldn’t you?”  
Her finger idles around the second button. “No,” Vera says quietly. “Not anything.” 

Joan leans back. 

Vera is even smaller than Jianna was. Her bones are thinner, her frame shorter and more petite. The deputy’s skirt hangs all the way past her knees. No. Vera could not have handled being in here alone. Vera serves to investigate, maneuver through paperwork, watch. She is not a riot breaker. 

She needs protecting. 

And she won’t fail this time; she won’t let this slip away. Absentmindedly, Joan skims over the curve of her deputy’s breast, small and lifted by light underwire, eliciting a soft gasp. But before she can move to do anything else, a thud from outside the door startles them both. 

Vera jerks forward, slipping out of the chair, and goes immediately for her weapons. 

Joan stands as well and holds out her hand. “Wait,” she says.

+++

It was the wrong thing to do. 

If there’s one thing Joan hates, it’s making the wrong choice. It happens rarely. But when it does, it’s terrible. Like this. She made the call to wait, and now Lucy and two other inmates stand before her, Vera in their clutches, and waiting was the wrong thing to do. 

Joan seethes. 

“Seems like you’re in a bit of a pickle,” Lucy says. 

“It would seem Vera is the one in a pickle,” Joan replies. 

Vera’s eyes flutter. She looks at the wall, her neck craned as it is, being held tightly by the two other inmates, a rusted screwdriver at her neck. She swallows. Her hair is still down from earlier and it curls behind the tool.   
“Do what you will,” Joan continues. “It seems you’ve got quite an axe to grind with her.”

Lucy waits. Although Vera is clearly trying to hide it, she’s nervous. A twitch trembles her upper lip. She stands with her left hand at the attacker’s elbow as if she could do a thing to stop what’s happening. 

Joan takes a sudden step forward. The attacker flinches but doesn’t make another move. Just grips Vera tighter and twists the screwdriver. 

Joan smirks. 

Without warning, she reaches out and grabs the attacker by the neck. For such a tall woman, the inmate’s neck is small, thin, and veiny feeling. Weak. Sweat has dried in the ridges of her skin. Joan tightens. A shocked gasp slips from the inmate’s mouth, then silence. Joan tightens. Her own blood heats. The sensation of her heart pumping and the sluggish pulse of the inmate’s runs together. 

The inmate lets go of Vera. The screwdriver drops. Joan barely notices; she uses her chokehold to throw the woman into the corner of the hallway. Then she turns to Lucy. 

There is nothing nice about Lucy. Nothing to correct. Lucy is bad; she targeted the deputy with intent to seriously injure or kill, and she must be taught a lesson. 

Joan grabs the side of Lucy’s head and smashes it into the wall. 

Once, twice, and then there’s a wheezing sound, and the obese woman’s knees buckle. She falls to the ground. Joan stands there for a moment, her body shaking, when the sting of pepperspray catches her attention. She sniffs and turns to see the third inmate on the ground, secured in handcuffs.

Vera.

Joan looks to her deputy’s face and sees a bloody gash running across her cheek. 

“Detain them in cell block C?”

She stares. Blood trickles down Vera’s face. 

“Governor. Cell block C is empty.”

Joan straightens. Yes. There are beds in C. She reaches down to heft the tall inmate to her feet. “Well, don’t just stand there, Miss Bennett.”

Vera’s eyelashes flutter but she doesn’t say anything.

+++

After locking up the inmates, they retreat back into the medical room for the night, this time in the far back room. Vera takes a seat on the edge of the nurse’s chair, her slim fingers fumbling with a piece of sterilized gauze. Joan watches her for a few moments, then steps closer. “Allow me.”

“I can manage.”

“Vera.”

The younger woman looks up sharply. With her hair down, her features are softened. Her eyes blaze under the darkness of her locks. Joan slips on a pair of latex gloves and pulls out an antiseptic wipe, smiling as it hisses over the wound, but Vera barely flinches. 

“You often surprise me with you capability,” Joan says. “It reveals itself in unexpected moments.”

She rolls a q-tip full of antibacterial gel over the cut and tapes it shut. Vera pulls back, gaze at the wall. The top of her deputy’s shirt is still open at the top, and from Joan’s position she can see the curve of the younger woman’s breast. 

Vera’ eyes water as Joan disposes of her latex gloves, and the move tugs at something in Joan’s stomach. Heat and desire roll through her belly. She tries to ignore it but she can’t. It is always like this for her; wanting people she will never have.

“You were afraid,” Joan states.

“No,” Vera says and touches her side. “I handled it.”

“But you still felt fear.”

Heat nips at her neck. It feels like she felt in the beginning of the riot; with little idea of where her actions would lead, but somehow sure Vera must be a part of things, and that they would have to stay close. 

“Do you feel fear now?”

“No,” Vera says again, but this time she sounds less sure. 

+++

The doors remain locked. The fire smell dissipates, as do the echoed shouts. But the lights stay at riot haze, bathing the room in a distressing red color, soft like blood when it’s hosed away.

“Remove that,” Joan says, and in the fresh silence of the prison, her voice booms.

Vera moves her hand from her side and looks up sharply. Her hair dusts her shoulders, her eyes almost grey. “Remove what?”

“Your shirt,” Joan continues. “You are unsuccessfully hiding the injury to your ribcage.”

“It’s merely bruised.”

Joan stares. It’s been hours since the riot first broke out. They pilfered water and orange juice from the infirmary refrigerator, but otherwise she’s had nothing to eat, and the feeling in her stomach—the tension, that prickle of heat, has been gradually growing. “Remove it,” Joan says. “Now.”

Vera’s cheeks pink, and her chest rises, breath quickening. Joan watches the flush to her skin sweep south, towards the dip in her shirt, where Vera begins after some moments, to unbutton. Her hands work slowly. She favors her right side. The white material of the shirt falls away to reveal a black tank top. She struggles to raise it over her head, but finally manages, flinging the material onto the ground. 

Joan’s breath catches. 

Vera’s bra is simple. Black. Her breasts are full, rounding gently above the cups. Her stomach stretches taut, arms softly toned with muscle, sinewy and coiled. Joan forces herself to take a step in and press her fingertips to Vera’s ribs. The sudden pressure causes the younger woman to cry out, albeit lightly. 

Warmth floods her belly. 

“Remain still,” she says, but her voice is not as commanding as it should be. 

Her fingers move, feeling methodically along each bone. All seem to be unbroken. Vera leans in, grabbing hold of Joan’s arm as the exam continues. “Thank you for staying with me,” she says quietly. 

Joan leans back. Her deputy’s face is set in a deep blush, lips pouty and full. She moves one of her hands to Vera’s hip, her heart beating in her stomach. “You are in pain, are you not?”

Vera bites her lip.

“I may be able to help you with that.”

+++

Vera’s breasts are larger than she imagined, but firm and pert. Joan smoothes her thumb across the swell of them, whispering across a nipple. Though almost nude, her deputy’s flesh is burning. She lies back on the exam table with the hazy light shadowing her cheekbones. The boldness in her gaze, like most things about Vera, is surprising. 

Joan moves steadily lower—pressing her lips to each breast, the hollow of her chest, her sternum, stomach, hipbone. When Vera squirms, she reaches up and touches the injured ribcage, pressing her fingertips into the tender bone. 

Vera hisses, stops. 

Joan has no idea how long it goes on for. Minutes? Hours? Eventually all Vera’s clothes are in a pile by her knees and Joan is burying herself between her deputy’s thighs. Whimpers fill the room. Heat. Joan undoes the top few buttons on her shirt and continues. She is sweating now, too, but somehow she doesn’t mind. All she knows is the quiet of the room, the soft murmurs, the way Vera’s thigh rounds in her hand. 

In one moment, Vera cries out loudly, bucking against Joan’s mouth before falling still. 

The room goes silent once more and Joan rises. Her legs feel cramped, muscles tight. Her hair has come out of its bun and wisps stick to the side of her face. She feels wet, messy and normally she would rush to sterilize, but it’s Vera lingering on her lips—her deputy, a woman belonging to her and no one else. 

Suddenly the hazy, riot lighting lifts. 

Joan forces herself to look away, straighten her hair. 

“The pain…” Vera says, and her voice sounds sleepy, “is much better now.”

Joan turns to the door. “Get dressed.”

The main gate a few feet down from the infirmary unlocks. Any moment, reinforcements will filter in. Stray inmates will be forcibly removed to their cell blocks. Joan exhales evenly. The tension filters out of her shoulders and neck. She straightens her uniform. 

“Vera—”

“Ready, Governor.”

When Joan turns, Vera stands behind her, uniform fitted tight over her tiny body. The buttons are closed up tight, collar unwrinkled. Her hair is back in a bun but she’s missed a strand—it curls next to her ear. After a pause, Joan reaches out and tucks it back into place.


End file.
